


Inverse

by Twig



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The way Punk looks at you now, though, is something else altogether."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inverse

**Author's Note:**

> Written in February 2008, before Cena and Punk were on the same brand. Seems more relevant now (August 2011).

There's a softness in his belly that you'd never abide in yourself, that you know he hates, but it's your favorite part of him. Punk doesn't complain when you've got your mouth on his stomach, lips pressed to abs that rise and fall with each slow breath. You know Punk's no slouch in the gym, puts in as many hours as the next guy, namely yourself. You know. And Punk knows you know. Sometimes you wonder if it's enough. Maybe that's why you kiss his stomach, press your face to it. Not a salve to his injured pride, like you think he has self-esteem issues. But he looks at you sometimes, looks at your body, and knows, too, that what you have is what people expect of guys like you.

It's not jealousy. Punk can be petty and vindictive in a thousand little ways, but jealousy has never been his vice.

The way Punk looks at you now, though, is something else altogether. You sit astride his hips as he lays supine on the hotel bed stripped of its cover and blanket with only smooth sheets underneath. Your jersey's on the floor, leaving you in jean shorts and sport socks. Punk, on the other hand -- you made good work of his clothes. All he's got left is black briefs and nothing else, just heat and bare skin. He's tense, though, weary-eyed, product of one too many sleepless nights. Too much energy and not enough, and he told you once that it's like ants behind his eyes and bees under his skin. Every time you see him like this, you vow to take that tension out of him no matter what. Sometimes you even succeed.

You stroke his arm, and he clutches the denim of your shorts. His eyes burn you, like smoldering flame at the end of a cigarette, more dangerous than a blaze. You look down the side of his forearm. Clover and dice. Luck is for losers. And you can get behind that philosophy. Hard work and sacrifice. Not enough that you'd want to brand it into your flesh though.

Punk sometimes defies your realm of understanding.

Both his hands are on your thighs and you lay yours on his wrists. Not to stop any forthcoming journey of his palms and fingertips, but you like to feel the bones of his wrists. Punk's built thick and strong, deceptively wide and tall. This place where arm meets hand, that's where you can take him if you want to. Twist like so, and you'll have a wrestling match on your hands, but you're in no mood to fight, not even as play. You just want to feel, following up Punk's forearms to his biceps, then back down again. You trace the ink on his arms, paw print and stars, then over the back of his hands, down along his fingers. Smirking, you lift his knuckles to your lips. DRUG, this one says. FREE, the other proclaims. You rub your thumb over the letter G, and Punk isn't so drug free when he's got you, better than a handful of soma to blow his pupils wide and put him to sleep. You don't think you're just a cheap addiction though. You know better.

You plant Punk's hands back on your legs, then it's back to a crawl of your fingers along his ink. Koi and Cobra, Pepsi and Aces. But in the end, you're drawn back to his stomach. Straight Edge.

A razor is a straight edge, too. And that's CM Punk for you. Deceptively soft on the outside, but he's all hard on the inside.

You? You're cut. Diamonds want the edge of your muscles. You're chiselled like a Greek statue, and that's not vanity speaking, just cold, hard facts. But it's you who has the soft, chewy center. Punk can slice you wide open if he wants, and none of your muscles can do a damn thing to stop him.

Good thing, then, that all he wants to do is get your pants off you.

Punk makes a noise, not exactly a growl, but a little more annoyed than a mere sigh. He's bitched to you more than once about your stupid belt buckles. The Hummer of the clothing world, he said. Compensation, he explained better with a smirk. As William Regal would say, you felt besmirched by the accusation.

Nice thing about being besmirched though: you can demand satisfaction and bloody well get it.

You let Punk get as far as yanking the belt out of their loops, but you don't let him get any further. This time, you catch his wrists and you mean it, pushing his arms back. Punk exhales in a laugh, and you wonder, in an absurd moment, if this will descend into a girly slap fight, but you both have enough dignity left to refrain.

You scoot back in your seat, straddling Punk's thighs now, clearing the way for you to tug his briefs down. Punk murmurs something that sounds like "finally," and you shoot him an exasperated look. You snap the waistband of his briefs, a loud whack in the cool silence of the room, but it's nothing compared to Punk's burst of laughter. He grabs your hand and covers his crotch with it, squeezes your hand over his cock. "Right here," his grin suggests. No, outright tells you. And god, that sends a jolt straight to your dick.

This time, you yank Punk's briefs down over his hips. You wrap your hand around his cock before he can quip with his mouth or his eyes. You squeeze before he can demand. You want to give right now, give before he asks, before he even knows to want. You have Punk firm in your hand, and it's his life you hold no matter how hard he is underneath, because he _softens_ all the way through when he's like this. With you.

You stroke him, slow and steady, and his eyes grow heavy-lidded, half-mast. There's a tremble in him, like a giant awakening from a slumber, and that may not be far from the truth. You don't fear though. You know only certainty. You rub the head of his cock with your thumb, swipe the growing drop of slickness from the tip and smear it all around. A hitch of breath in Punk's throat tells you exactly what he thinks about that.

Punk yearns. It radiates off him. He clutches your knees, fingers seeking a grip, dull nails leaving crescents in your flesh. It's a different kind of tension that overtakes him, one of your doing, and you watch him. You look at him. This is what you do to him. Punk is snide and cynical, with a touch of cruelty in his blood and a mean streak a mile wide. But right now, he just _wants_.

He wants _you_. Through those half-shut eyes, a glimmer of hazel fixates on you. Past the crew cut, square-jawed All-American. Definitely past the chain gang, beat soldier, self-styled gangster. You mean it every time you say Hustle, Loyalty, Respect, and Punk gets it. More than a slogan, more than a catchphrase. You give your all and you don't stray.

Punk hangs onto you like he never plans to let go.

You don't deflect him this time when Punk reaches for your fly, deft fingers prying the button loose and dragging the zipper down, reaching inside to take your cock out. It's welcomed relief. You push your breath out through your mouth, let your eyes slip shut for a moment, just feeling that. Pressure. Grip. Demonstrated knowledge of a knowing hand. Punk grabs a handful of opened denim with his free hand and jerks hard, tugging you forward.

You're more than ready for this part. You push up and forward with your hips, and Punk's hand joins yours in gripping both your cocks together. The contact is nothing less than electric, a hiss through your clenched teeth as Punk thrusts up against you. You press down, lay your body on Punk's, more than ready for _this_ part, too, your mouth on his. Finally. His mouth opens under yours, and you kiss him deep. Drag your tongue over the straight edge that is CM Punk and dare to get cut for your trouble.

You don't bleed, because Punk's got you in hand, too. His fingers tangle with yours as you both fist your cocks in an inelegant rhythm. You pant against Punk's mouth when you're too breathless to kiss. He surges up against you like the tide lapping the beach, lips and teeth hitting your chin in some approximation of affection. Punk's near writhing under you, making soft, desperate sounds, noises that border on whimpers.

Not so hard now, you think. And then you don't think at all. Just rush. Scalding and liquid.

You've got your face planted in the pillow next to Punk's head. His teeth gnaw on your earlobe. You make a noise. You're not about to move.

Punk bites hard on your ear. You curse. He laughs.

"Get off me, jerkwad."

You roll off, sprawl on the bed next to Punk, and listen as the pulse-pound of your blood edges near normal, as Punk's breathing grows slow. With another heave, you roll yourself off the bed, your shorts crumbling to your ankles, and you simply step out of them like a layer has been slaked off you. You peel off your socks, then clean up in the bathroom, return with a washcloth, and by the time you're sitting at Punk's bedside, Punk's already half-asleep.

You wipe the mess from his belly, your favorite part of him. It seems a silly distinction to make, since you like all the parts of CM Punk, ink and piercings and all. Your own skin is smooth and unmarked. You can never imagine branding yourself. Punk doesn't see it as a mutilation. He wears his memories and his friendships, his creed and his values. You keep yours to yourself. You wonder sometimes which of you is the stronger one, and it doesn't matter how stupid a question it is, you think it anyway. Because Punk dares. You're no coward, but Punk has an audacity that you can only emulate.

He's hard on the inside where it counts, soft on the outside when it matters. And you don't know how to do that.

Punk shifts and rolls toward you, and there's a pliancy to his limbs that tells you the tension is finally out of him, that all you've got are stupid questions and idle thoughts. Punk is an insomniac, but you think maybe he can get some sleep tonight, and it'll be because of you. He wears his brands, but you get to read them, and when you kiss him, soft, on the forehead, he laughs. Without scorn, just fondness, a smile in his eyes.

As you get in bed with him, you're reminded, as always, of the one thing you both have in common. The body is a temple, never to be desecrated. You don't believe in ink, but you wear a brand just the same. You feel it on your skin, burning hot, when Punk's mouth meets your shoulder in a goodnight kiss.

And there's a long list of drugs CM Punk will never take. But you're not one of them.


End file.
